is domestic.

Sparetimes.
You blown into coma
on a red comforter
after being cleaned of cat-hair
and kitchen smoke.

Peace.

The inconsequent webbing between
stubbed toes.
My brilliant smut is
that the sander breaks, the
paint spills, the
toilet backs,
and still you hop near,
cosmetically peaceful,
and prune in the gist of my spit.

I'm loose. Boiled straw.
The next-level prick of this house.

Welcome again, you,
to spastic matador fits and
the unibrowed pleasures of
this each-new-best;

it's the lesser met, domestical minute.